Skyrim System In Westeros

After the excitement of the previous night, dawn came quickly.

Oberyn couldn't spend all his time touring with Wright. As the Prince of Dorne, he had political matters to discuss with the Sealord. Before departing, he told Wright that most foreigners gathered near the Ragman's Harbor, a bustling hub for trade and goods exchanges.

Wright, accompanied by Nymeria and Tyene, decided to explore the area.

He still wore his noble attire, ignoring the local custom of dark clothing for aristocrats. Sobering up from the previous night, he welcomed the possibility of duels from any assassins bold enough to challenge him.

The Ragman's Harbor bustled with activity. There were ships from Westeros, the Nine Free Cities, and beyond. The port's scale and organization surpassed anything Wright had seen in Westeros, with its clean streets and orderly commerce.

Rather than engage in trade negotiations, Wright focused on observing the variety of goods from different regions. Eventually, the three grew tired and sought a place to rest.

"My father mentioned an inn called the House of Seven Lamps nearby," Tyene said, tugging Wright's hand with an eager expression. "They host performances by courtesans. Let's go see!"

"Alright, I'll ask for directions," Wright replied. Tyene's pleading look always left him with no choice but to indulge her.

After navigating the maze-like alleys of the dock area, the trio arrived at the House of Seven Lamps. It was a relatively luxurious inn, buzzing with a cacophony of voices in various languages.

The inn had two levels, with a central stage featuring performances of music and dance.

As Wright entered the hall, many flamboyantly dressed individuals turned their attention toward him.

Word of the previous night's events had spread through Braavos's assassin circles. A foreigner wearing Westerosi noble attire, armed with a Valyrian steel sword, and capable of crushing a man's skull with his bare hands — this was not someone to challenge lightly.

His noble clothing, imposing stature, and distinctive features fit the rumors perfectly. Some assassins began recounting their observations of the duel, while others, who were unaware of the incident, eagerly asked for the details.

The three of them found an empty table and had just taken their seats when a strikingly beautiful woman approached with a server in tow.

"Greetings, honored guests," she said with a soft smile.

"Hello," Wright replied, assuming she might be the owner of the establishment.

"My name is Nightingale. I'm one of the courtesans here. May I join you?"

The seating arrangement consisted of long, plush sofas facing the stage. Wright was flanked by Tyene on his left and Nymeria on his right.

"This is my wife," Wright gestured to Nymeria, "and this is her younger sister. If you'd like, you may sit beside my wife."

Nightingale took the offered seat, motioning for the server to set down a tray of fruits and drinks before pouring wine for everyone. Wright now found himself surrounded on both sides, while Nymeria mirrored the arrangement with her own companions.

"These drinks are courtesy of the noble seated upfront," Nightingale explained, pointing toward a man dressed in dark attire. The noble raised his goblet with a cordial smile aimed at Wright.

Tyene lifted her glass, took a sip, and then grinned at Wright—a silent assurance that the drink was not poisoned.

Wright raised his cup in acknowledgment. "I don't know him. Did he say anything to you?"

"He asked if your Valyrian steel sword was for sale," Nightingale replied, pouring him another drink.

"Ah, so that's it." Wright smiled, unbuckling the belt that held the sword and placing it on the table. Drawing the blade from its sheath, he let the steel catch the light. The noble across the room was watching intently.

Nightingale ran her hand along the blade, inspecting its hue and intricate patterns. After confirming its authenticity, she raised her goblet toward the noble.

"Valyrian steel is indeed rare," Wright said casually. "Even at a high price, it's nearly impossible to acquire. However, let him know this sword is called Dark Sister. It's one of the two ancestral swords of House Targaryen. And I," he added with a grin, "am Wright Baratheon. Let's see if he still wants it."

Nightingale's eyes widened. The Targaryens, the rulers who had unified Westeros centuries ago, had been overthrown by the Baratheons only a decade prior. The memory was still fresh.

She curtsied to Wright before approaching the noble. After a brief exchange of whispered words, the man's expression grew awkward. He sent over another round of drinks but made no further mention of the sword.

The stage performances transitioned to a band playing music, and Nightingale returned to Wright's table. She had a way with words, charming the group into a cheerful mood. After several performances, she excused herself to prepare for her turn on stage.

In a private box on the second floor, where the lighting was dimmer and one could observe the main hall without drawing attention, Oberyn sat with a stunning brunette dressed in a septa's clothes. The woman, though in her forties, was remarkably well-preserved, appearing barely over thirty. Oberyn, his arm draped around her, watched the events below with a subtle smirk.

"My daughter resemble her mother," Oberyn remarked, breathing in the scent of her hair.

"It's just that your dye smells rather strong."

The nun, Lemor, glanced at Tyene and Wright laughing together below. "Is he good to Tyene?"

"Very much so," Oberyn replied. "He's even taught her magic and alchemical skills. The poison on my spear these days comes from her handiwork."

"As long as he doesn't interfere with our plans," Lemor said with a hint of caution. "Tyene and Nymeria seem happy enough. But they've been married for so long — why haven't they had children yet? Could it be because of the magic?"

Oberyn shrugged. "How would I know? I don't have a talent for magic. Lemor, don't you want to meet Tyene in person?"

"No," the nun replied, shaking her head gently. "Watching from a distance is enough. As long as she's happy, I'm content."

At a nearby seat, a young man with striking blue hair kept his gaze fixed on Wright. His attention was particularly drawn when Wright unsheathed the Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister. As the blade glinted under the light, the young man's hand drifted to his chest, where his heartbeat quickened.

Oberyn, still holding Lemor in a close embrace, turned his attention to the young man. Switching to the Common Tongue of Westeros, he asked, "Young Griff, what does Dark Sister mean to House Targaryen?"

The youth, appearing a few years younger than Wright, was tall and slender. Though there was a boyishness about him, his amethyst eyes held a steely resolve. "Both honor and disgrace."

Oberyn's lips curled into a sly smile. "Do you plan to buy it? Or take it by force?"

Speaking now in High Valyrian, Young Griff responded, "It's merely an object. When the right hearts, loyalty, wealth, lands, and weapons align, I will return to Westeros."

He turned to meet Oberyn's gaze, his voice unwavering. "When that time comes, someone will offer Dark Sister to me willingly."

The city remained vibrant in the days leading up to the festival, with most revelries reserved for the nighttime. Daytime events were modest distractions, but when night fell, the true celebrations began.

As darkness settled, Wright, Tyene, and Nymeria donned newly purchased masks and joined the throngs of revelers, eager to immerse themselves in the festival's lively celebrations.